The crackling roar of flames echoed in Nyala's ears, growing louder with each breathless second. Heat surged beneath her bare feet, rising hungrily, until it clawed its way through her limbs, threatening to tear her body apart. Fire curled around her like a vengeful spirit, consuming her slowly, mercilessly. Her magic—once her lifeline—had been sealed away. Beneath the execution platform where she hung, bound and helpless, stood the only remnants of what she once called family: Crown Prince Vaelkain, Venyssa, and the Empress Dowager. Grief shimmered in their eyes, tangled with fury, helplessness, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
Around them, the people of the empire watched. Some wept, some glared with hollow hatred, and others cheered with cruel satisfaction. Justice had been served, they believed. A traitor had been condemned.
So this is how it ends, she thought. I shouldn't care. I'd see mother and Mazu, once again.
The noose had tightened around her throat—she had felt the sharp snap of breath leaving her. And yet… she was still seeing. Still aware. Watching, somehow, as the final act of her life unfolded before her eyes.
"How am I still seeing this?" she whispered. "Is my mind playing tricks on me?"
Then, a sound—gentle, ethereal. A soft chime, like bells in the wind.
The sky split open.
A burst of light descended, pure and blinding, engulfing her in its brilliance. The fire vanished. The world faded. And the light took her.
With all the strength she could gather, her eyelids trembled, then slowly fluttered open. A dull ache throbbed through her limbs, and sharp pain lanced through her side and lower back. Her body felt heavy, sore—each movement a quiet protest of pain. Beneath her, she realized, was a bed draped in smooth silk sheets. She attempted to sit up, but her muscles refused, punishing her effort with a wave of searing pain.
Then came the smell—damp, old, and cloying. It reminded her of wet cloth left buried underground for centuries, only to be unearthed and disturbed.
A gasp escaped her lips.
Was I... dug up from the grave?
Her fingers twitched, curling slowly. Even that small motion ached. Her head throbbed in a slow, pulsing rhythm, and to her surprise, tears welled in her eyes. Not from fear, but from the pain—raw and overwhelming. She had endured many wounds in the past, some far worse than this. And yet, never had they made her cry.
Ah, she realized bitterly, it must be because my magic is sealed.
Her gaze drifted upward, searching for familiarity. The ceiling stretched above her—an intricate mosaic of tiles and stone forming a mural. Then her breath caught.
She knew this place.
It was the celestial mural of Solléonis Palace—a masterpiece carved into legend. A place only royalty or the chosen few ever saw.
Am I... inside the palace? she wondered. Was I saved? Did Kain and Venyssa save me?
But the thought dissolved almost as quickly as it formed. No matter how desperately she tried to convince herself, it made no sense. The imperial court—and especially the church—would never allow such mercy. Not after what she'd been accused of. If the new emperor had intervened, suspicion would have fallen on him like a sword waiting to strike.
Then... where am I? she thought again, her chest tightening with unease.
I want to go home, she sulked inwardly, the ache no longer just in her body, but rooted deep within her heart. She thought of her mother—her fiery red hair like a blaze in the sun, and her vibrant green eyes that once held the warmth of spring. Then came the memory of Mazu, her steadfast, soft-spoken adopted father, whose strength had always been her anchor.
Why… why are these emotions flooding in now? she asked herself. On the execution platform, her mind had already surrendered—dulled by despair, numbed by betrayal. She had felt nothing then. Not sorrow. Not fear. Just... emptiness.
A sudden itch clawed at her throat. She tried to suppress it, swallowing hard, but it only worsened. A loud cough burst from her lips, and her body convulsed violently. She choked, gagging on her own saliva, and instinctively rolled to her side—only to tumble right off the narrow bed. She hadn't realized how small it was, no wider than a boat's paddle.
A loud thud echoed as she hit the cold, unforgiving floor. Pain exploded across her limbs. She whimpered, shrieked, and curled in on herself, hair falling like a curtain over her eyes. Every part of her ached more than before.
Then—a gasp.
The sharp clatter of a bowl falling. Water splashed across the floor. Quick footsteps approached.
A pair of hands—gentle, trembling—lifted her from the ground. Her hair was swept away from her face, and through her blurred vision, she saw a young maid, eyes wide with disbelief, her lips quivering.
"M-M'lady…" the maid whispered, voice cracking, on the verge of tears.
She cradled Nyala carefully, as though holding something precious and fragile. The girl circled around the bed, preparing to lay her back down. But Nyala flinched, panic flaring in her chest.
Why is an imperial maid carrying me with such ease? With such reverence?
She began to struggle, weakly pushing against the arms that held her, heart racing. Her mind spun with confusion, questions crashing over one another. But her body betrayed her—each movement ignited fresh waves of pain. She gasped and clenched her teeth, helpless as her limbs gave out again.
She had no choice. She was too weak to resist.
So she let herself be carried, trembling in the maid's arms, back to the narrow bed that felt far too soft for a condemned soul.
The maid gently settled her onto the bed, this time propping her up against the headboard with surprising care. Pillows were adjusted behind her back, allowing her to sit upright despite the weight of her pain. Nyala's breathing slowed as her body stilled—yet her mind refused to follow.
Then she saw it.
Beyond the maid's shoulder, hanging on the far wall at the foot of the bed, was a mirror. A modest one, framed in faded wood, half-fogged by time. Her gaze locked onto the reflection—and her breath caught in her throat.
A child stared back at her.
Not just any child—a frail, unfamiliar girl, no older than seven. She wore a thin nightgown, almost transparent in the dim light, revealing the bruises marring her arms, legs, and neck like ink stains on porcelain. Her complexion was ghostly pale, nearly translucent, and her body small and thin, fragile as glass. Only her face remained untouched, smooth and unblemished.
But what stunned her most—was the hair. Silver, tinged with ashen grey, cascading in tangled strands down her shoulders.
This isn't me.
Her mind screamed it. This isn't me!
Her hair had always been a proud flame-red, like her mother's. Her skin had once been warm, sun-kissed from hours of training under the sky. She had never been this small. Never this... broken.
Yet the eyes in the mirror were unmistakable.
Amber gold.
My eyes.
Her stomach turned.
What is this? Where am I?
Panic rose in her chest as she whipped her head toward the maid, who was quietly gathering the fallen bowl and spilled water, placing them onto the bedside table with trembling hands. She hadn't said another word.
Nyala's eyes darted around the room. It was small—uncomfortably so. The wallpaper was dull and faded, curling at the corners. The windows were barred. There was no opulence here, no sign of the palace grandeur she remembered. Just a bed, the mirror, a single table stand, a dim oil lamp, and an old wardrobe standing crookedly in the corner.
This was not a room fit for royalty. Not even a guest.
What the heck is happening?!
"This is a miracle, M'lady," the maid whispered, her voice soft with awe.
M'lady… again with that, Nyala thought, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she studied the girl.
The maid sat beside her on the bed, her movements gentle and unhurried. She reached out, placing a hand lightly on Nyala's forehead. "You're getting warmer—that's good news."
Nyala blinked. Warmer?Wouldn't that mean a fever? Her brows furrowed. That didn't sound like good news at all.
But the maid only smiled—tenderly, relieved. "You… you were nearly gone…almost dead…" she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. "And yet… somehow…"
She paused mid-sentence, noticing the stunned expression spreading across the child's face—her wide amber eyes, filled with questions, with fear.
But I was dead. Nyala answered in her mind. I was gone.
She had felt her life tear away from her body. She remembered the flames. The noose. The pain. And then—the Light. That blinding, radiant light.
And now…
Now she couldn't even speak. Her mouth wouldn't dare, her tongue tried to form words, but nothing escaped. Her throat felt stiff, barely responsive. She'd been trying since she woke—desperate to say something—but it was as if her voice had vanished altogether.
The maid watched her closely.
"M'lady… do you remember what happened yesterday?" she asked, her voice tentative, kind.
Yesterday? Nyala echoed inwardly. I was hanged. Executed in front of the empire… But then she glanced again at her small, frail hands—bruised and unfamiliar. No… not yesterday. That wasn't yesterday. Not in this body.
This body… this child… it's not mine.
And then it hit her.
The Light. The Light! It must have something to do with it.
Her heart skipped.
The maid, noticing the sudden shift in Nyala's eyes—those deep, gold-amber irises now bright with some unspoken revelation—leaned in, concern etched across her face.
"What is it, M'lady? Does something hurt? Where is it?"
Nyala wanted to laugh. Not out of joy, but disbelief.
Well… everywhere, actually, she thought wryly, her inner voice laced with tired humor. But you wouldn't know that, would you?
The maid let out a quiet sigh. "Right… I shouldn't waste any more time," she murmured, almost to herself. "The Madame will be back later tonight… but the Grand Duke hasn't been informed yet…"
She paused.
Then turned to Nyala, her expression suddenly intense, determined.
"M'lady," she said, voice low but steady, "yesterday, I thought I had lost you. I wept beside your bed until my hope dried out. But now—here you are, eyes open, breathing, alive." Her voice trembled, but not with fear—there was something else behind it. Devotion. Resolve. "I thought there was no more chance to go through with the plan. But somehow… somehow, Lehoi has shown mercy. You've come back to us."
Then, as though the floodgates had opened, she sprang into motion. She moved to the wardrobe, reaching up to the top shelf and pulling down a small, worn suitcase and a thick infant wrapping blanket—one clearly meant for a baby, but large enough to swaddle a child as malnourished and slight as Nyala now was.
Nyala watched in stunned silence as the maid gathered belongings, moving with both haste and care. Am I being kidnapped? she wondered. But… she looks so concerned. Why would someone plotting harm look at me like that?
Nyala longed to ask what was happening, to demand answers—but her body felt too heavy to lift, her tongue too thick to form words.
And then it hit her like a wave:
The Grand Duke.The Madame.
Her chest tightened as the realization bloomed—cold and terrifying.
Augusten Velmorian?! Her mind reeled. That Grand Duke?!
No, no, no… don't tell me… I've been reborn into the Velmorian Ducal House?!
A new panic erupted within her. Augusten Velmorian—the man who had always loathed her existence. A man of power, pride, and poison-laced words. Her thoughts raced in all directions, tangled in memories of cold eyes, clipped words, and a hatred that had once burned with cruel indifference.
Her face twisted with panic, her thoughts spiraling into frantic disbelief. You're telling me I'm under his roof? I'm a child in that household?! Her soul shrieked in protest.
No. No, no, no. This can't be happening!
The maid glanced over, catching sight of Nyala's expression—a mix of confusion, defiance, and panic all wrapped in a strangely adorable pout.
A tiny spark of rebellion. A flicker of the fire in her amber eyes, just like the one she used to carry.
The maid gave a sad smile. "No need to worry, M'lady," she said gently. "For six months now, I've been planning to take you away from this place… for your safety. We must leave before Madame returns."
With care, she lowered Nyala back onto the bed. Every movement made Nyala flinch—her body still raw with pain. The maid worked gently, wrapping her in the infant blanket, swaddling her as if she were something sacred.
Then, without effort, she lifted the child into her arms.
Meanwhile, Nyala was internally screaming. She wanted to kick, to protest, to demand an explanation. But her body wouldn't cooperate. So she lay there, helpless, while her mind spun in circles of panic, disbelief, and… dread.
I'm going to die a second time… she thought bitterly, surrendering to the weight of it all. Her limbs ached, her thoughts were scattered, and her heart had no strength left to fight. So she gave in.
The maid gently cradled her, wrapped tightly in the infant blanket, and pushed open the door. Only then did Nyala realize how secluded, how deeply hidden that room had been. As they stepped outside, a rush of light spilled over her pale face, and for a brief moment, the warmth of the sun kissed her skin.
Relief.
She hadn't realized how much she missed it—the light, the air, the scent of morning dew, since before her execution she was kept in the dungeon for three days and two nights. For a fleeting breath, she didn't care that she was being carried like a frail child. She let herself rest, pressed against the maid's back, as they quietly navigated the long and endless halls.
Corridor after corridor. Turn after turn.
It looked like Solleonis Palace—down to the golden white-marble archways, the vine-wrapped columns, the gilded lanterns carved with lion crests. She had walked these halls before. And yet…
Why did the maid say "the Grand Duke"? Nyala's brows furrowed faintly.
The Velmorian and Solleonis houses had always been civil, yes—but far from friendly. No member of the Velmorian bloodline would ever be welcomed to live within Solléonis Palace, much less dwell deep within its private wings.
Was I… kidnapped by the Solléonis? No. That couldn't be it. She dismissed the thought quickly. It didn't fit.
Did time move forward? Have years passed since my execution? Her thoughts spiraled, picking through every moment leading to her death, then her rebirth.
Her head began to throb—an ache blooming between her eyes and at the base of her skull. Then… flashes.
Memories. But not hers.
Fragments of a life—of a child who had cried in the dark, who had hidden under the bed, who had trembled and felt cold at the sound of heels on stone floors. Nyala gasped softly. Who… was she? Where did her soul go?
If I had been reborn into this body… What had happened to the girl who once owned it? Did She die? Was it because of yesterday?
And what, exactly, had happened yesterday?
Questions swarmed her mind, stacking, overlapping, multiplying. The bouncing steps of the maid—every hurried footfall, every sharp turn—only intensified the pounding in her head. Nyala clenched her eyes shut, trying to stay calm.
Somehow, they had already passed the back gardens. A familiar row of white lilies and ancient oak trees blurred past them. They were now deep within the private lands—the hunting grounds and sacred mausoleums of the Solléonis bloodline.
No outsiders were allowed here.
These were grounds blessed by celestial guardians, reverends and guarded by ancestral oaths. Within these forests lay crypts, spirit temples, and sacred altars. Only those of true Solléonis blood could enter without invoking wrath from the spirits.
Yet here they were—running through it.
Then the maid spoke, her voice short of breath but laced with determination. "Only a few more runs, M'lady… and we'll be out of the hunting grounds. We'll take the main road straight to the Grand Duchy." She paused just long enough to glance down. "The Grand Duke must hear this."
What exactly am I to the Grand Duke? Nyala wondered, the question digging deeper into her already burdened mind. A sister? A daughter? A niece? Her thoughts offered no mercy, no rest.
The maid came to a sudden halt, gasping sharply. Nyala, who had just begun to find a fragile sense of comfort nestled on the woman's back, groaned in protest at the abrupt stop. Mustering what little strength she had, she lifted her head—just enough to see.
And there, standing in the middle of the sun-drenched path, was a lion cub.
Its golden fur shimmered under the sunlight, like a beast crafted of living gold. Its eyes—soft, round, and glowing like twin suns—met hers. A strange warmth spread across Nyala's chest, quiet and calming.
A single word slipped from her dry lips, hoarse but unmistakably hers:
"Sager."
She startled at the sound of her own voice—how small, how fragile it was. Yet for the first time since awakening, a flicker of joy stirred in her chest.
Slowly, she wriggled one thin arm free from the infant wrap and reached toward the cub.
The maid, though confused, did not question it. With reverent hands, she shifted the wrap and repositioned Nyala to cradle her from the front. Then, gently, she knelt and set the child down, supporting her frail back as she sat her upright.
The lion cub, regal despite its size, padded toward them. Its steps were silent. Purposeful.
"A lion cub…" the maid whispered in disbelief, her eyes wide in awe. "It's the emblem of House Solléonis. They say if ever one appears—" She stopped herself, realization dawning. "Ah. Of course."
Nyala barely heard her. Her focus was wholly fixed on the golden cub now sitting before her. With all the poise of a creature far wiser than its years, it reached out a paw and placed it gently upon her chest.
Warmth.
It poured into her—not like fire, but like sunlight after a long winter. Gentle, golden streams seemed to seep into her skin, into her bones. She felt it: the bruises, the raw aches, the tearing pain in her body—all of it slowly soothed, healed, restored. A whisper of feathers brushing her from the inside out.
Her magic.
Not all of it—but a piece. A relevant and sacred piece had returned to her.
Nyala's amber eyes shimmered in wonder. She hadn't realized how hollow she had become until now, with this spark filling the emptiness again.
The maid couldn't see what Nyala saw, but she felt it. The very air had changed—thicker, warmer, sweeter. The breeze itself seemed to soften as though it bowed before something ancient.
The maid stared, awestruck. "So this… this is the power of the Solleonis bloodline…"